


The First Time

by Moorishflower



Series: A Cold Academic Hell [29]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have a lover / A lover like no other / Shows me colours when there's none to see / Gives me hope when I can't believe / That for the first time I feel love</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Time

The thing about the university’s coffee is that, even though it’s incredibly shitty and absolutely no one should want to inflict it upon their person willingly, Dean still drinks it. When he drives Sam to the Starbucks he doesn’t order coffee for himself, and when he walks past any number of small, student-oriented coffee stalls on his way to class he never stops and buys himself a cup. Admittedly, at least some of this is due to expense. The university’s coffee is the cheapest you can get without lowering yourself to digging through trashcans for used coffee grounds, and it might taste like old elephant leather but at least it still has caffeine in it.

The other reason, of course, is that he has an excuse to hang out with Sam before they both head to class. It’s not something he’ll ever admit to, but he thinks Sam knows it anyways, because Sam always lingers over his coffee in the mornings. Always.

Sometimes they sit in silence, enjoying each other’s company without feeling the pressure of needing to talk about anything. Other times…

“Something’s on your mind,” Sam says, more to his coffee than to Dean, but they both know who it’s directed at. Dean scowls at his hands, clenched into traitorous fists against the table. He forces himself to relax. Picks up his coffee and sips it. He hasn’t touched it in over five minutes, and it’s lukewarm and unappetizing against his tongue, but he swallows anyways. That was probably how Sam guessed something was wrong, by him not drinking his freaking coffee. Sam’s observant like that.

“Nothing’s on my mind,” he mutters. That’s a lie. Not the biggest one he’s ever told, but still, a blatant lie, and Sam just _looks_ at him over his coffee cup, one of those stupid extra tall ones that Starbucks gives out.

The truth is, there are a lot of things on his mind: schoolwork, of course, to a certain extent, and his grades by association, and there’s almost always a part of him that’s thinking about Sam, about whether they’ll have enough money to get him through college, whether he wants to go to grad school or not…

Even more than that, though, he’s been thinking of Castiel. His eyes, his hair, his smile – so rarely shown, but always amazing when it appears – and his laugh, the way his fingers curled when Dean had kissed him for the first time. He’s thinking about all those things, and he’s thinking about what Castiel had told him in the Impala, their bodies and breath fogging the windows, Castiel’s hair mussed from Dean’s fingers running through it. He’d said that Dean wasn’t ready. He’d said _not yet_.

 _Which is bullshit because Dean has been ready since the day he saw Castiel. He’d been jerking off to Castiel’s blue, blue eyes before he’d ever even had a class with him, before they’d ever even _kissed_. He’s more than ready. He wants Castiel, and really, they’re both adults, aren’t they? They’re both consenting and sober? Why should they wait any longer? Is it something that Dean did? Is it something to do with Castiel? Does he have hang-ups?_

Dean can’t put his finger on it, and it’s driving him crazy.

“You want to talk about it?”

Dean defiantly takes another sip of his coffee (cold, now), and grimaces. Gross. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He wants to figure this out without dragging anyone else into it, doesn’t want Sam to get involved in his love life because Sam will see who he’s going out with and he’ll be judgmental and he won’t trust Dean ever again and…

“It’s your boyfriend, isn’t it?”

Dean lets out a breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding, setting his half-full coffee cup down and glancing at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes until class. He’d had trouble sleeping last night, and, unable to get any rest, he’d ended up dragging Sam to campus earlier than usual as a result.

“Maybe,” he hedges. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Whatever you want to call him, then. Your beau.” Dean wrinkles his nose. “Your _whatever_. What’s wrong, Dean? You’ve been weird all week. Are you two having…problems?”

God, the way Sam says it is just so fucking _earnest_. Like asking the question isn’t even the right thing to do, it’s just _the_ thing to do. Like there’s no other possible choice for him to make. It’s really that guileless concern that makes Dean sigh and lean over the table, folding his arms and pillowing his forehead against his hands.

“I don’t know, Sammy,” he murmurs. “I mean, I sort of _do_ know, but I don’t know _why_.”

“Have you been arguing?”

Sam doesn’t ask for a name. Dean is grateful for that. “Not…really? Okay, promise that nothing I say here _ever_ leaves this table, okay? You don’t tell _anyone_ else, not even your own boyfriend.”

Dean notes that Sam doesn’t object to the term, and files it away under “interesting.” He also notes that Sam no longer makes any attempt to hide the fact that he _does_ have a boyfriend, or, at the very least, someone he’s interested in. Maybe he really did stop seeing the guy for a while, or maybe he was lying. Dean’s just glad that he’s happy. Glad that Sam knows, now, that he won’t judge him.

“I promise,” Sam says, and Dean’s focus drifts back to the present.

“All right. So, we’ve been seeing each other for a while now, you know? Since I first met him, it’s been like…five months, I guess? And it’s been good. Really good.”

“But?”

“Well, I guess…let’s say, _hypothetically_ , that…he keeps telling me I’m not ready.”

“For…?”

Dean glances over his shoulder to make sure no one is listening, then leans forward and hisses, “ _Sex_.” Sam’s eyes widen.

“Oh. _Oh_.”

“Hypothetically!”

“Right, of course. So, uh, hypothetically, did you ask him why?”

Dean lays his head down against his hands again, grumbling. “He just _smiles_ , dude. And then he does something to distract me, like, I dunno, kisses me, or gives me food or something.”

“You’re like a lab rat, Dean, are food and sex the only things you think about?” Dean kicks his brother under the table and Sam laughs. “Okay, okay. So, uh, if he isn’t answering your questions, that means he wants you to figure it out on your own, right?”

“Or he doesn’t want me to figure it out at all.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Start at the beginning. Has it always been you who…?”

Dean snorts. “Suggested it? I mean, I guess. I dunno. The first time it was definitely me.”

“How did you ask?”

“Ask? Uh, we were making out in the car…”

“Oh dude, I _sit_ in that car, _gross_.”

Another kick. “…and I asked him if I could come in, you know. If he’d let me stay the night. He told me he didn’t think I was ready and then he got out and he went inside.”

Sam steeples his fingers, staring at Dean from across the table. It’s a weird, not entirely comforting look. Dean presses his palms over his eyes and rubs them to avoid looking at his brother.

“Okay, this might sound weird, but, uh…is it always like that?”

“Always like what? A lot of build-up and then blue balls for the rest of the night? If that’s what you’re asking, the answer is yes.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “ _No_. I mean, are you always making out in some uncomfortable place when you ask if he’ll let you stay?”

Dean holds up a hand, ticking off his fingers as he thinks. “In the car, on the couch, in the kitchen, once…”

“Have you considered…I don’t know, actually trying to be romantic about it?”

“Romantic? What the fuck do you mean, romantic?”

“Like…inviting him out to dinner, driving him home, asking him if you can stay for coffee…”

“I thought coffee was a euphemism for sex.”

“It is, a lot of the time. But it doesn’t always have to be.”

“That is the sappiest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Sam sighs. “Look, just give it a try, okay? Do something romantic for him, don’t try to make any advances, and see how it goes. Maybe you’ve just been trying to go too fast.”

Dean mutters quietly into his on palm, about annoying little brothers and equally annoying boyfriends – not that Castiel is his boyfriend, because that term is kind of juvenile and stupid – and expectations that he wasn’t even aware he was supposed to meet. Still, though, he considers the possibility of, maybe, admitting that Sam is right. That he’s been rushing towards the finish line without even practicing for the race first.

He picks up his coffee cup and stands, carrying it to the trash and dumping it. Sam follows him shortly after, continuing to carry his own coffee, even though it has to be empty by now. He’s probably waiting until he comes across a recycling bin.

“Yeah,” he finally says, just as they’re about to enter the lecture hall for religious studies. “Yeah, okay.”

Sam grins at him. “Okay what?”

~

Dean’s had some pretty bone-headed ideas in his time (according to Bobby), but he’s pretty sure that this one beats all of them. This is the king of stupid ideas. No, the _god_ of stupid ideas, the progenitor from which all other stupid ideas issued.

He is going to take Sam’s advice. He is going to seduce Castiel.

“How do you seduce someone you’re already dating?” Bobby glares at him from across his kitchen table. They’re both taking a break, letting Ellen man the front office while Jo tinkers around with an old Toyota in the garage. They don’t have any appointments for the next half-hour, and Dean is looking forward to the possibility of, maybe, getting home early. It’s Wednesday, and Wednesday night is always burger night.

“Idiot,” Bobby mutters, and Dean snorts.

“I mean really, though, what am I supposed to do? Get him flowers?”

“You could shut up for a start.”

“I don’t even know if he _likes_ flowers.”

Bobby makes a loud, put-upon noise and then shoves his chair away from the table. He stomps over to the cupboard over the microwave, retrieving a bottle of something – probably whiskey – and taking a long swig from it.

“Sam suggested dinner,” he offers, and Bobby grunts. “Should I take him out to dinner?”

“ _Lord_.”

Dean points an accusing finger, and Bobby rolls his eyes. “You’re not helping.”

“Sorry if I’m not helping you coordinate the colors for your wedding, _princess_.”

“Seriously, though. Do you think I should ask Ellen? Maybe she’ll know how…”

Bobby slams his bottle of whiskey down on the counter, startling Dean into silence. “You know what I think? I think you need to stop pussyfooting around the issue and just do what feels right. If you think he’d like flowers, then give him some damned flowers. Or make him dinner. Or give him a _ring_ , for all I care, but you’re not getting any younger, and neither is he, so do it _quick_.” Bobby picks up his bottle again, waving it menacingly in Dean’s direction. “And for god’s sake, stop _talking_ to me about all this shit. I’m happy for you, Dean, I really am, but I don’t need to hear about your love life.”

Dean winces. “Uh. Sorry, Bobby.”

Still, though, something that Bobby had said during his tirade snaps at him. It itches and bothers him for what feels like it has to be hours, until, fifteen minutes before he can clock out and go home, Dean slides himself out from under a Ford Fiesta and sits up bolt straight. He nearly hits his head on the underside of the car, and Jo, sitting on the garage’s workbench and organizing a toolbox, stares at him.

“I’m gonna make him dinner,” he tells her, and she blinks.

“Make who what now?”

“Cas. I’ll make dinner for him. Ask him if it’s okay if I hang out at his place for a while, and I’ll make dinner. He’s got this meeting on Friday, he won’t be done with it until like, seven, and…”

“Just so you know, it sounds like you’re fishing for your own key. Why not invite him to your place?”

“Sam,” Dean says, and pulls a face. “He’s got some test on Monday so he’s gonna spend all weekend studying. Besides, I don’t…” Dean raises his hand, rubbing the back of his neck. “Castiel’s house is so…nice, you know? And he decorated it himself, and…and our apartment is just this shitty little place. I mean, half our furniture came from the side of the road. Why would he want to eat in a place like that?”

Jo hums softly. “I think…you should try inviting him over. It’s romantic.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. Even though you feel uncomfortable about showing your space to people outside your family, you’re doing it for _him_ because that’s how strong your feelings are!” Jo’s expression is distant, dreamy. Dean scoots back, grease smearing the backs of his pant legs.

“Okay? So how am I gonna get Sam out of the house, huh?”

Jo grins, snapping back to the present. “Oh, you just leave that to me.”

There’s a part of Dean that doesn’t exactly like the sound of that. Jo is smiling like a shark, smiling like her _mother_ , and if there’s one thing that Dean knows it’s not to fuck with Ellen Harvelle in any way, shape, or form. Jo is growing up to be similar in a lot of ways.

“You’re not going to knock him out, are you?” he asks cautiously, and Jo laughs.

“No! No, but there’s this new club in town, and I was thinking I’d invite him and his…?”

“Boyfriend,” Dean offers, and Jo nods.

“Right. I’ll tell him that I’ll go alone otherwise.”

“Nice use of the guilt card.”

Jo mimics a curtsy, almost knocking the toolbox from her lapse. “Thank you!”

“You sure he’ll go for it?”

Jo levels him with a _look_. “This is your brother I’m talking about. Of course he’ll go for it. Now go and clock out, you’ve got planning to do.”

Grunting as he pushes himself up on the ground, Dean gives Jo a nod as he passes her, and she winks in return.

He suddenly feels a lot more confident, and he clocks out and heads home with a feeling smoldering in his chest, a feeling that’s almost like hope.

~

Dean doesn’t really have a concrete plan. He has dinner to make, of course, but beyond that he has no idea how things are going to turn out. He doesn’t even know if Jo will keep to her end of the deal. Anxious, he spends pretty much all of Thursday night shopping, trying to plan something simple, but not coarse. Easy to make, but still with an air of “I went through some trouble to make this for you.” He doesn’t want to just throw a frozen pizza in the oven and call it a night. He wants to make this _special_.

He ends up browsing a magazine with the words “10 recipes to impress your lover!” blazing across the cover in painfully yellow letters. He uses his phone to take a picture of the best-looking dishes, and their recipes, when no one is looking, and then he finishes shopping and heads back to the apartment. Sam stares at him as he hauls his purchases in through the door, but, distracted by his upcoming test on Monday, he doesn’t comment. Dean is grateful.

Friday rolls around, and Dean texts Castiel early on in the morning: _Have plans. Come to my place around 7ish?_

He gets an affirmative _I will_ and feels slightly better. Sam stares at him. “You’re planning something,” he says, and Dean shrugs. “Does this have anything to do with the lobster tails in the fridge?”

“They have to defrost.”

“That’s not the point. Since when do you eat _lobster_?”

“Don’t you have a test you should be worrying about?”

Sam pulls a face at him, but he drops the subject, and Dean spends the rest of the day in a sort of agonized hybrid of anxiety and excitement. He has a recipe. He can follow a recipe, can’t he? How hard can it be? And if Jo follows through, he and Castiel will have the apartment all to themselves for the foreseeable future. Jo will text him when Sam heads home, won’t she? Everything will be fine. Everything will go according to his admittedly flimsy plan.

“Everything is going to be ruined forever,” he mutters, and the girl sitting next to him snorts.

“Story of my life,” she says, and then continues to take notes.

Classes end. Dean lurks nervously outside the administration building while Sam finishes up with _his_ classes, but he doesn’t catch a glimpse of Castiel, or anyone, really. He heads back to the car feeling just as anxious as he’d felt before. Sam notices immediately.

“Dude,” he says as he buckles his seatbelt. “You’re practically vibrating.”

“Had too much coffee.”

“No you didn’t, I _watched_ you. Are you planning something with your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Your _whatever_.”

“Don’t you have anything productive to do? Like volunteer at a soup kitchen or win the Nobel Prize or something?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m just trying to figure out if I should expect you home at a decent hour.”

Dean winces, but doesn’t say anything, and Sam doesn’t comment further as they pull out of the parking lot and head off campus.

Dean hopes that Sam doesn’t hate him too much after the stunt he’s about to pull.

~

At six-thirty on the dot, Sam’s cell phone rings. Dean watches as he fumbles for it, brow furrowed in irritation. There’s a pencil tucked behind his ear and an eraser held in his other hand as he flips the phone open and mumbles, “Hello?”

Dean doesn’t hear the ensuing conversation, but he keeps an eye on Sam from his position in the kitchen, presiding over his lobster sauce like an anxious mother. A few minutes later, he hears Sam’s startled, “ _What_?” and then the sound of him standing, books thumping to the floor. “But…don’t you have someone to go with? A…a girlfriend? I mean…”

Dean stirs his sauce, grinning to himself as Sam sighs, drifting into the kitchen to grab his jacket off his chair. “Okay. No, no, I’m coming, let me just get my… _No_ , I don’t want you to call…”

Sam wanders back out of the kitchen, and Dean loses track of the conversation. A minute later he hears Sam call out, “Back later, Dean!” and then the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Dean turns the heat down on the stove to let the sauce simmer, then grabs a pot for the linguini. All he needs to do is put the garlic bread in the oven and pour the wine, maybe light a few candles, and then the mood will be set.

Half an hour later, the smell of half-burnt bread filling the kitchen, Dean gets a text from Castiel. _My meeting is over,_ it says. _I will arrive at your apartment in ten minutes._

Wincing, Dean quickly scrapes the burnt bits off of the garlic bread, dumping them down the sink and then sliding the bread onto a plate. He covers it with a paper towel to keep the heat in, then sets it in the center of the table, next to the single candle he’d managed to scrounge up. He uses his ancient Zippo to light it, the scent of pine needles masking the burnt smell of the bread.

Three minutes before Castiel arrives, Dean slides his homemade lobster linguini onto plates, sets out silverware and napkins, and then dashes out into the living room to linger by the door.

A moment later the doorbell rings. Dean nearly trips over himself as he rushes to answer it.

Standing on the stoop, coat draped over one arm and looking vaguely confused, Castiel nods as Dean leans against the doorframe. He’s wearing a dress shirt and a blue tie, his glasses hanging from his collar. Standing with the cloud-dark sky as his background, Castiel looks stern and maybe even a little forboding.

Dean wants him so badly he thinks he might die of it, mussed hair, awkwardly formal clothes and all. Instead of jumping him, though, Dean steps aside and gestures for Castiel to come in, unable to keep himself from smiling.

“You seem to be in a genial mood,” Castiel notes. The first thing that he does is hang his coat on the line of hooks near the front door. Dean’s never noticed those before. He and Sam usually just throw their coats wherever. “Did you receive a good grade on a test?”

“Not exactly.” Dean closes the door behind them, stupidly pleased with how…how _familiar_ Castiel seems with everything. He doesn’t stop and stare at their second-hand furniture or the mess of textbooks and notepads that Sam has left behind in the living room, he doesn’t look at Dean with pity and disgust at the place where he lives, he doesn’t…

“Your apartment reminds me of where I lived when I was in college,” Castiel says softly, and Dean blinks.

“It does?”

“Yes, very much so. Sometimes I miss it. There is security in owning one’s own house, of course, but apartments have their own charm.”

Dean shrugs, unsure of how to respond. “I guess.”

Castiel turns, smiling. He steps closer, resting his hands on Dean’s hips and leaning forward to kiss the corner of Dean’s mouth. There’s nothing terribly sexual about either the touch _or_ the kiss, but Dean feels a thrill run down his spine regardless. He pushes it away. _Focus. Don’t go too fast._ “You said that you had made plans? Are we to go to that barbecue restaurant you mentioned?”

Dean gingerly touches Castiel’s arms, leaning back slightly. Castiel frowns at him, brows furrowed in confusion. “Uh…not exactly.”

“Another place, then?”

“Just…come and see.”

Then, taking Castiel’s hand, Dean slowly leads him into the kitchen. There are still traces of Dean’s cooking and then subsequent hurried cleaning – some of the lobster sauce had spilled on the counter, and there’s still a smear of it left, not to mention the burnt smell that still lingers faintly in the air – but, on the whole, he thinks it looks…maybe not _fancy_ , but presentable. The candle throws off a gentle light that, even with the overheads on, makes the table look nice. The linguini is still steaming, the garlic bread is warm, and the wine sits next to two empty glasses…

“Dean?”

Dean starts, abruptly letting go of Castiel’s hand. What if he doesn’t like it? God, what if he’s allergic to lobster or something? Dean had never thought of that. Didn’t Castiel say he liked seafood at some point? _Oh God, oh God_.

“I just,” he says, and swallows hard. “I wanted to do something special, so I…made us dinner.”

Castiel takes his hand again. Dean doesn’t try to pull it away as he raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss to Dean’s knuckles. He shivers.

“This is beautiful,” Castiel whispers. “Thank you.”

“So it’s okay? It’s not…I made pasta. With lobster sauce. Do you like lobster? We can always order take-out, or…”

“I love lobster.”

“Oh. That’s…that’s good.”

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice is gentle. “You need not be so nervous. What you have done here is perfect. Beautiful. I did not know you could cook.”

“I can grill stuff,” Dean says faintly. “I don’t actually…know how good this is going to be.”

“I am sure it will be more than satisfactory. You made it, after all.”

“Stop it, you’re gonna make me blush.”

Smiling, Castiel pulls on Dean’s hand, tugging him into the kitchen and guiding him to one of the seats. The candlelight casts flickering shadows across Castiel’s face, and Dean, after a moment, forgets why he was ever nervous at all. Castiel does that, sometimes. Makes him feel a hundred feet tall.

Someday Dean will understand it. Right now, he’s just happy to reap the benefits.

~

Still mindful of what Sam had told him about moving too fast, Dean keeps his hands (as well as his eyes) largely to himself over the course of dinner. Sometimes their fingers will brush as they reach for their wine, or for the salt and pepper, but for the most part they eat in silence, only occasionally broken by a compliment (from Castiel) or a question (from Dean).

After his second glass of wine, Castiel gets up and fills his glass with water instead. Dean follows his example, thinking that, if nothing else, it’s polite not to get drunk in front of someone during a romantic dinner.

“Lobster is expensive here,” Castiel notes, and Dean shrugs.

“It’s the same as buying a steak. Only…from the sea.”

“I have never considered it in that light. You are right. The prices are comparable.”

They finish their food, and Dean automatically grabs Castiel’s plate as well as his own, bringing them both to the sink. He winces. Too many dishes. He should have done them earlier, that way Castiel wouldn’t think he’s a…

“Let me help,” Castiel murmurs, and his voice is so close, right next to Dean’s ear. He jumps slightly, turning to see that Castiel has rolled up his sleeves and has grabbed the sponge from the dish rack.

“Oh…you don’t have to, most of this is from me and…”

Castiel leans around him, turning on the faucet and then kissing Dean’s cheek.

“There is no shame in accepting help,” he says, and Dean, shrugging, plugs up the drain and grabs the dish soap.

They wash the dishes in much the same way as they ate their dinner: silent, but not uncomfortable. Castiel loads the dishwasher with their plates while Dean piles pots and pans and cooking tools into the warm, sudsy water. He plunges his arms in up to his elbows and Castiel stands nearby, holding a towel and drying things as Dean hands them to him.

They’re done twice as fast as Dean would have been able to manage on his own, and Castiel looks how with water splashed down his shirt and his sleeves rolled up. When they’re finished, Dean rinses his hands off and then wipes them on his jeans, grinning hesitantly.

“So, uh.” _If he wants you, he’ll let you know._ His mental voice sounds disturbingly like Sam, but Dean goes with it. “It’s not that late. I don’t have any tea that’s on par with what we had at Otto’s, but I’ve got this green tea that Sam brought back, and it’s okay. Kinda fruity, but…”

“I think,” Castiel says slowly, “that I would rather you give me a tour of your apartment.”

Dean pauses, considering. That’s a line that he might use, or might have used in the past, but Castiel is often so literal, so obtuse in the strangest ways and so unbridled in others…it can’t hurt to make sure. “It’s not all that big. You’ve already seen most of it.”

“I have yet to see your bedroom.”

Jesus. _Christ_. There’s no way to misinterpret that, and there’s no mistaking the way Castiel is staring at him. Dean’s seen it before, once over a desktop, and again in the Impala, with Castiel’s breath puffing against his mouth and their bodies close enough that it was almost uncomfortable. Dean swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s true.”

Castiel takes his hand again, pulling Dean out of the kitchen and then pausing in the hallway. Letting Dean decide.

Slowly, Dean leads Castiel down the hallway and towards his bedroom. Slowly, they step through the door and let it swing shut behind them, and Dean crowds Castiel up against then wall and then drops down to his knees, as if in a dream. He presses his face to the soft, warm-smelling flatness of Castiel’s belly, pulling his shirt free of his slacks and rucking it up, pressing his tongue to the coarse trail of hair that leads down and down and down. Castiel makes a quiet, shuddering noise, like a sigh underwater, and cups his palms to Dean’s skull.

“Been a while since I did this,” Dean warns, and Castiel curves his fingers against Dean’s ears and tilts his head up and back. His glasses are askew where they hang from his shirt, and his eyes look almost like they’re glowing. Dean reaches up, fumbling for the light switch, feeling self conscious. Castiel catches his hand in midair.

“I want to see you. Will you let me see you?”

Dean swallows. “Yeah. I…yeah.”

He slides Castiel’s belt from its loops, discards it and goes to work on his fly. Everything is heavy and strange. It feels like he could be asleep.

“Is this a dream?” Dean leans forward, pressing his nose to Castiel’s briefs. He smells like musk and arousal, salt and soap. It’s a good smell. Healthy, male. Castiel makes a startled, punched out sound as Dean sticks out his tongue and presses it flat against the white cotton, the bulge there, wetting it until it’s almost see-through.

“It is not a dream,” Castiel says, voice strained, and then bodily hauls Dean up off his knees before Dean can seal his lips against the cotton and suck.

They fumble towards the bed together, a weird four-legged dance that ends with them sprawled across the sheets, Castiel’s slacks halfway down his legs and his shoes still on, and Dean laughs as they both disentangle themselves so that they can get their clothes off. Dean can’t remember ever having laughed like that before, not when the prospect of sex was on the line. There’s something freeing about it, especially when Castiel looks at him, one sock off and the other on, and he laughs, too, a quick huff of mirth and then gone again.

“It has been a while for me as well,” Castiel murmurs, and then he pulls his pants off, his shirt half-open and hanging off his shoulder, and he leans forward and drapes himself over Dean just as he manages to get his pants down around his thighs.

“Okay,” Dean says. “Okay, we’ll go slow.”

They do. They don’t really do anything they haven’t done before, just kissing and touching, though this time it’s without clothes, not over clothes. Castiel’s fingers, with the help of the bright overhead lights, find every scar and bump and wonky patch of skin on Dean’s body, across his chest and down over his belly, smoothing across his thighs and then turning him over so that Castiel can map his back and his ass as well. His lips follow, making every ugly thing about Dean’s body seem otherworldly and good, and then they do it all over again, this time with Dean touching Castiel’s ribs, his cheeks, his belly, his thighs, the high delicate arches of his feet. When they press up against each other, cover each other with their bodies, it feels like the best sex Dean’s ever had and then some.

“Cas,” he murmurs, fire up his spine and in his belly and Castiel is staring at him with his mouth open and his eyes wide. Like he’s never seen Dean before. Like Dean is something special. “Oh my god, Cas, I…”

And Castiel lunges up and kisses him, kisses him so deep Dean can practically feel him in his soul, and outside the storm clouds that had been threatening the city with foul weather finally open up, lightning flaring across the sky as rain pours down and washes the streets clean of the last remnants of snow.


End file.
